Non Innocentem
by lo scrittore
Summary: Released from prison for murdering her husband, Bella Swan must rediscover the identity she has forgotten, reclaim the relationships she has lost and find the courage to attempt to love again.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer.**

**Stay with me… note at the bottom**

**NON INNOCENTEM**

**Prologue**

_~Come on, you dirty little whore. Show me what you got.~_

At my trial, the prosecuting attorney painted me out to be a cold, calculating, closet psychopath that was not just a flight risk, but a menace to society; the worst criminal Washington had seen in a decade. No woman in her right mind would shoot her husband at point blank as he was getting out of his truck after a long day at work at the hospital. No woman would reach for the cell phone that she had waiting, dial 9-1-1, and calmly confess to the operator that she had just executed the man to whom she had given her life in the most sacred of ways, cutting her vows short with a pull of a trigger. No normal woman would sit in the interrogation room for hours upon hours, going over detail after sordid detail of her marriage of five years showing absolutely no emotion. No remorse.

The defense attorney tried to portray me in a different light, as the battered woman of years of domestic abuse that had finally decided to stick up for herself. Of course, we weren't in Forks anymore—he didn't know the judge, didn't know the jury, didn't have my father, the Chief of Police, sitting in the back of the room with his hand on his holster waiting to shoot the first person that tried to slander James' name. Here in Seattle, my case wasn't familiar to the twelve people sitting to my right. They didn't know me, they didn't know James Hunter. All they saw were police reports, medical records, transcripts of phone calls made to the Abuse Hotline on my behalf by a few concerned Forks citizens. They wanted the jury to see me as weak, a victim. Innocent.

_I am not innocent._

I watched them carefully throughout the trial. I watched them as James' mother took the stand, sobbing through her testimony about a loving son who never showed any signs of a temper or violence. When his ex-girlfriend testified to the fact that he had never hurt her, never so much as raised a hand at her. Never yelled, never cursed, never hit. When the Chief of Surgery took the stand and lauded his praises, calling him a gentle man who wouldn't hurt a fly, a man who was the picture of perfect beside manner with his patients. When my father claimed not to have noticed anything off about our marriage, how we had seemed like the typical newly-wed couple. They tried to convince them that I was guilty.

I watched their looks of confusion and discomfort as Doctor Cullen took the stand and showed pictures of my injuries—limbs in casts, ligature marks across my neck, bruises on my face and arms, split lips and swollen eyes. Some things which, contrary to the prosecutor's argument, could not have been caused by sheer clumsiness. My best friend Angela detailing how she'd noticed I'd grown detached after coming back from the honeymoon as I slowly stopped hanging out, calling her, leaving the house. The Abuse Hotline operator who answered to several calls—never mine—about what to do for a woman whose situation was similar to mine. They tried to defend me, to save me.

_I am not innocent._

Then the lead detective took the stand, the most damning testimony of the trial. The shotgun was held up for demonstration. Photographs were shown on a screen of the cigarette I'd been smoking and the whiskey I'd been drinking on the porch as I waited for him to come home. Play-by-play computer animated recreations were played on a monitor. A blown up image of James Hunter's forehead, or what was left of it, was the final blow; most of his head was gone, and it had only taken me less than five seconds to do it.

The prosecutor's argument was that I had sat there, waiting, ambushing him with a well-developed plot for homicide. That I was a murderer.

The defense claimed that I was only doing what I had to to survive the torturous hell that I lived in. That it wasn't my fault.

_I am not innocent._

My name is Isabella Marie Hunter and I killed my husband.

**So… how we feeling?**

**This is just the Prologue, I'm planning on working on it more tomorrow. I've got some good ideas about where this one is going. Stick with me? I promise you won't regret it **


	2. Chapter 2

**I've done a fair amount of research on the prison experience, but none of it is specific to WCCW. I have never been to jail so I can't guarantee this is an authentic account, but I'm doing my best to make it as real as possible. Please bear with me as I couldn't find a whole lot of specifics on this prison so I had to use some creative license.**

**By the way, I forgot to mention this earlier...  
><em>non innocentem = <em>not innocent  
><strong>

**NON INNOCENTEM**

**Chapter Two**

_~_I can give you the world, Bella, if you'll let me_~_

**Washington Corrections Center for Women  
>Block B, Cell 226<br>April 12, 2010  
>1:07 am<strong>

Someone was screaming.

It took me a moment to realize that these weren't the screams I had been hearing in my dreams. They were similar enough; screams of fear and agony, screams at the frustration of the futility of fighting back and the helplessness of being at someone else's mercy. But these screams were echoing amongst the walls of my cell and waking up the inmates, rather than going unheard by ignorant neighbors. These screams were very much real.

It wasn't the first attack I'd heard. I'd been in prison for nearly four years now, and attacks either on or among the inmates weren't really an uncommon occurrence. The first one I'd witnessed was a total shock to my system—a gang rape in the showers—that had me cowering against the walls in terror. As they became more and more common, however, I slowly became desensitized. The screams stopped belonging to individuals, but rather became one collective cry at the abuse and torture. I stopped viewing the oppressors as animals, stopped seeing the oppressed as prey.

It was the only way I was going to survive.

I had locked away any emotion conceivable years before, when I realized that it was the only way I was going to make it through to see my parole hearing. If I allowed myself to feel angry at the butch that stole my bar of soap, or sorrow when my lawyer said that my hearing had been moved back a few months, or sad for the girl that was being raped by a corrections officer, I would have hung myself by my shoelaces or swallowed a handful or razorblades by this point.

There was a thumping noise, followed by muffled cries.

Rosalie rolled over on the bunk atop mine and I knew she was awake.

"Bella?" she whispered.

"Hmm."

"Are you okay?"

I shrugged, choosing not to answer her. I never was.

"It's Jessica," she whispered again.

I couldn't think about that, couldn't think about her. The screams had no face, no name. They didn't belong to a person, just an unrecognizable body that I didn't care to identify. I blocked out the horror that rose up at the edges of my psyche, pushing it back like smoothing back the wrinkled edges of paper. I rolled over on the thin mat, pressing my front against the wall and turning my face toward my pillow. I pulled the thin blanket up over my face. Pressed one ear deeper into the pillow, covered the other with my arm.

I stayed awake as her screams of protest began to quiet, dulling instead into submissive sobs. The loud thumping I had heard—both the thumping of her cot and the blows that landed to her body—slowed and eventually quieted. I heard the clang of a cell door and the sound of boots walking down to the opposite end of the hallway. I listened to her retch in the toilet by her bed.

I closed my eyes, blocking everything out.

-X-X-X-X-X-

**Mess Hall  
>April 12, 2010<br>8:23 am**

I picked at my food, moving the soggy eggs back and forth across my plate to make it appear as if I was eating. If one of the guards saw that I wasn't eating, they would simply take my food altogether, dump my tray and take me back to my room. And I didn't want to go back yet. I wanted to speak with Rose for the few minutes we were granted, without interruption or prying ears.

"So they moved your hearing _up_now?" she asked, scooping the eggs into her mouth.

I nodded. "June tenth."

"Well shit, girl, you may just get out of here."

I shook my head, pursing my lips. "You know how these things go. Less than half that go before a judge get released on probation. It's just… not prudent to hope for it at this point."

"Seventy-five percent of statistics are made up, you know?"

I arched an eyebrow at her before turning back to the grey-ish sausage on my plate. She hissed. When I looked up at her, she was looking over my shoulder, her eyes scrunched in pity and concern. I turned my head to see what it was she was looking at and was met with a very beaten, bloodied version of Jessica Stanley, whom we had just met two days prior.

"What kind of sick bastard would do that?" Rose asked.

I shrugged. "Someone who's not getting it from his wife, I assume."

"Is that so, Hunter," a voice said from behind me. I turned back and looked over Rose's shoulder to meet the steely eyes of Officer Demetri Volkov. I knew just by looking at the smug look on his face that he was the one who had assaulted her. I could practically _smell_the contentedness and pride radiating from his blood. I grit my teeth against the onslaught of anger that thrummed through my veins, pushing it back behind a wall of stone-cold numbness and detachment. It wasn't as hard as it used to be, pushing it all back. But it still left me exhausted, drained.

"Maybe she likes it rough. _Painful_," he continued to goad. "You'd know all about that wouldn't you?"

I didn't meet his eyes. Just looked down at my tray.

"How about you, Hale? You like it like that, don't you? I heard you can take on five at a time." His voice lowered to a lethal whisper as he brought his mouth to Rose's ear to whisper loud enough for the both of us to hear and no one else, "We may have to test that out, won't we."

My eyes ached to snap to hers, knowing what his comment must be doing to her. But I fought against the urge, keeping my head down and not reacting to his provocations. I continued to pick at my eggs, stuffing a forkful into my mouth.

Thankfully, he didn't choose to stay and taunt us some more. He stood up and left with a "Have a nice day, ladies," striding over to greet the officer standing at the meal line. The line where Jessica was currently receiving food. I knew what he was doing; antagonizing her more, taking advantage of the power he held over her.

"I'd like to show him rough and painful," Rose bit out. When I looked up at her, her face was pale and her eyes red-rimmed. She didn't cry though. She never did.

"Now that kind of thinking is what got you here in the first place, Rose," I chided gently.

Her eyes were full of spite and anger, a rare occurrence. She was the one who had emphasized the importance of detachment—had helped me work through my emotions in the beginning, provided support when I struggled, gave me a shoulder when I woke up from nightmares and friendship when I was lonely. She knew the ropes. She'd been there much longer than I had.

She didn't talk much about what happened to her. All I knew was that she had been gang raped by her fiancé and a few of his friends after they'd been bar hopping the night of his bachelor party, and when she recovered from a stint in the hospital she performed a very dramatic, Poe-esque revenge killing in her wedding dress that landed her in lock-up for twenty-five to life. Due to her circumstances she had been granted the possibility for parole, but she had no hopes for a court date any time soon. She had been on good behavior, maintained her Work-Release program and generally didn't cause trouble—except once when she raised Cane when one of the guards wouldn't let her watch the View. She got a pretty good riot going too, until the Warden found out and she didn't come back to her cell that night.

She never told me about what happened, but she stopped putting up a fuss after that.

She was still looking at Officer Volkov over my shoulder, her eyes narrowed. "Yep, and I haven't regretted it a day since." She finally met my eyes. "I wouldn't regret another sentence if it means that piece of shit doesn't get the chance to hurt anyone again either."

"Rose, you can't talk like that."

Almost as quickly as it had opened up, the steel curtain behind her eyes snapped closed. She exhaled a harsh breath and turned toward the gray sausage patty on her plate, cutting it—stabbing it—into pieces with the side of her fork. We continued eating in strained silence until a bell sounded, signaling the end of the hour we were given for breakfast. I stood, picking up my tray from the table. Rose didn't move.

"Rose," I urged. "Come on."

She didn't move, stubbornly staying seated as she speared bites of food before shoving them gruffly into her mouth. She didn't look at me. Instead, she continued staring at Officer Volkov.

"Rose," I said, slightly firmer. Then, more quietly, "Come on, don't do this."

She glanced up at me, her icy blue eyes hard and cold. I knew what that look meant—she was resisting, protesting against the system. It happened every once in a while; she would get a rebellious glint in her eyes, a recalcitrant twitch in her brow that signified a rising stubbornness in her that went unrivaled. She wasn't going to budge.

"Problem here, ladies?"

I glanced over at Officer Jane Halfax, standing just a foot behind me. Her blond hair was pulled tightly into a bun, so tight her eyebrows were raised halfway up her forehead, all pointy and arched and making her look perpetually surprised... or challenging. She had a certain beauty about her that made me nervous. She was blond, tan, in perfect physical condition, had no imperfections on her skin. She was beautiful, she was intimidating.

She was kind of like a scary Barbie doll.

I shook my head.

"Hale?"

Rosalie just cocked an eyebrow at her.

"I don't think she feels well," I answered.

"Is that so?" Officer Halfax was staring at Rosalie, not me. Challenging her… daring her to cause a scene.

Rosalie looked up at me, blinked twice and turned back to Officer Halfax. "Yeah. Bad cramps."

Officer Halfax looked her up and down, twice, before nodding sharply and turning on her heel. Rosalie looked up at me again, rolled her eyes and stood and grabbed her tray. We headed over to the trash cans, dumped our trays and left the room, heading back toward our cell with the rest of the women.

"I'm so damn tired of this," Rose said. "Being herded around like we're cows."

I snorted. "Speaking of cows…"

Mammoth was the more correct term. Lauren Mallory looked like she'd put on weight—and that was putting it nicely. Her ass had definitely widened in the last month, making her go from big to huge. She'd come in around the same time I had. We'd had the same work detail for a few months—I worked with her washing dishes in the kitchen—until she had some kind of psychotic break after seeing the drawer of knives. Curled up on the floor in a ball and rocked back and forth, not moving until three guards and the prison psychologist had to come and carry her out.

I'd feel bad for her if she wasn't a complete bitch. She seemed to have a thing for Rose—always taunting her or going out of her way to get her in trouble. She would openly skimp on the work we did together, leaving me the majority of the dishes and only working when a guard came in to supervise. She was entirely inappropriate with the guards who were all too happy to… attend… to her advances.

Rose looked over at her. "Gain another five pounds, Lauren?" she called out.

Lauren turned around and shot her a withering glare. "Did someone forget to send in your hair dye this month? I see more roots on your head than I seen in a Canadian Christmas tree farm."

Rosalie cackled. "Say whatever you need to make your fat ass feel better, heifer."

"Ladies!" an officer shouted from the front.

Rose and I were escorted back to our cells and I crawled onto my bunk. Rosalie chose to sit on the floor with her back against the wall, examining her nails. I picked up _To Kill a Mockingbird _from the floor, a book I'd recently checked out from the prison library. It looked old, like it was possibly a first edition that had been in the library since its publication. The pages were yellowed and worn, the edges crinkling up and some pages so smudged they were difficult to read. But that was the way I preferred my books; ones that looked like they'd gotten a fair amount of use. That was when you knew a book was a good one.

I'd been an English Lit major in college, and while it was nearly a crime to have any degree in the English language without having read the book, it had somehow escaped my radar through high school and college. Now, since I seemed to have unlimited time on my hands, I made it a mission to read _it _and as many other books as I could get my hands on. The list was about three hundred books long and contained some books that I'd enjoyed but hadn't read in a while—due to the fact that they were still in my childhood bedroom, which I hadn't seen in nearly ten years—and others were books I wanted to read simply because they were available and the jackets looked interesting.

I'd managed to read through _Wuthering Heights_ a couple times, as well as _The Awakening, Beloved, The Bell Jar, Emma, The Joy Luck Club _and _The Divine Comedy. _It wasn't terribly difficult to read uninterrupted as long as you either stayed in your cell or in a secluded area away from other inmates. Some women left me alone, but others—like Lauren Mallory—liked to taunt and tease and be bitches for no other reason than pure boredom and the lack of a desire to be free from this place. So I preferred to stay here, in my cell, unless I was called away for any reason the officers saw fit.

"Swan," someone called from outside the door.

I looked up from my book to see Officer Felix Montenegro unlocking my cell door. I put my book on the floor and stood up.

"Time to go see the shrink," he said emotionlessly.

I walked up to the threshold and held my hands up, wrists out, so he could roughly clap a pair of handcuffs on. They were tight and caused an immediate ache in my bones but I showed no reaction as he grabbed me by the shoulder and jerked me out into the hall. I looked down at Rose, who winked at me. I rolled my eyes and followed the officer down the hallway.

He didn't speak to me, didn't say anything. Montenegro was one of the more humane officers in this place, treating us better than animals but still less than humans. He didn't taunt or tease, and I'd never heard of him being involved in an attack. He didn't necessarily stick up for us, but I had a sense that he was a decent individual that just didn't graduate from high school and got stuck with the shit shift.

"Least you're not a traffic cop," I said under my breath.

"Pardon?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Nothing, sorry," I said as we came to a stop outside the prison psychiatrist's office door. He tapped gruffly and then pushed the door open.

"I'll be back in an hour," he called out as I walked through the door.

Doctor Whitlock looked up at him from a file spread out on his desk, peering over his glasses. "Ms. Swan's sessions last an hour and a half."

"Warden told me an hour today, Doc. Says Swan has to pick up an extra shift in the kitchen to make up for being sick yesterday."

Doctor Whitlock raised an eyebrow at me.

I shrugged.

"She gets an hour and a half, and if the warden has a problem with it, you can tell her to come see me."

"I better not lose my job over this," Officer Montenegro grumbled as he began to shut the door.

Doctor Whitlock wasn't finished. He cleared his throat.

"Officer?"

Montenegro peered through the door.

Doctor Whitlock gestured at the manacles around my wrists. "Would you be so kind as to remove those, please?"

"Doctor, I don't think—"

Doctor Whitlock looked up at him, his eyes tightening as his controlled anger began to rise. "That's the second time you've questioned me today, boy. Are you really _that _concerned with losing your job?"

Montenegro looked at the floor.

"Remove. The. Cuffs."

He shuffled forward, not meeting my eyes, and grabbed hold of my forearms, thrusting them up. Jamming the key forcefully into the lock, he released the catch on the handcuffs and yanked them off my wrists. Securing them into his belt loop, he turned on his heel and strode out the door, closing the door none too gently behind him.

Doctor Whitlock smiled at me, his icy façade melting into the warm Southern gentleman who had been treating me for the past four years. He pulled open his desk drawer. "Would you like some lotion for your wrists? Tylenol? Advil?"

"Doctor Whitlock—"

"Jasper."

"Doctor Whitlock," I continued. "I'm pretty sure you're not allowed to give me that stuff."

He chuckled, placing the lotion on the outer edge of the desk before closing his desk drawer. "I've got to say, Bella, you're definitely one of the most behaved inmates I've ever seen."

I shrugged, still rubbing my wrists. They were sore and slightly swollen, a red welt already forming where the metal had been closed too tightly.

Doctor Whitlock gestured to the seat he was waiting for me to occupy. "Well sit down. We've only been doing this for four years."

I moved to take a seat, eyeing the lotion speculatively. It wouldn't hurt my pride _too _badly to take him up on his offer…

"So, Bella," he said, glancing down at my file. "How has your week been?"

I shrugged.

"Any problems that I need to report?"

Shrug.

"Any more nightmares?"

I hesitated.

He nodded. "That's what I thought. Would you like to talk about them?"

I shook my head. It was the only response I could get out. My vision had already begun to grow cloudy and my throat was closing up as memories of the awful nightmares I'd had came hurtling through my memory. Submerged in a tub of fire. Coughing up blood that wouldn't stop. A distant screaming that was coming closer and closer. The breath stopping in my throat as something constricted around my windpipe. Heart pounding in my chest, not stopping. I can't wake up. I can't…

"Bella," he interrupted. "Bella, look at me."

I slowly brought my gaze up to his.

"Can you see me?"

I nodded slowly.

"Can you hear me?"

Nod.

"Where are you?"

"Washington Corrections Center for Women," I stated automatically.

"Specifically?"

"Your office."

"What time is it?"

"Ten?"

"Good enough," he amended, nodding. "We'll come back to those later, if we can. Officer Montenegro said you were sick yesterday?"

"Cramps," I responded.

"Are you on medication for them?"

I shook my head.

"Would you like to be?"

Again, I shook my head.

He sighed, closing the folder. I felt sure I was frustrating him. Last week I talked incessantly, spitting out stories and thoughts and feelings that I'm sure made his eyes roll back into his head. He probably came in his pants from glee that I was opening up so much to him. This week though, there was something preventing me from speaking. Like there were steel cables running between my teeth that kept my jaw clamped shut.

His hands formed a steeple beneath his jaw. His fingers drummed together lightly. "So your lawyer called me."

I nodded.

"He said your hearing got moved up?"

Nod.

"That's excellent news."

Shrug.

"He asked me if I would testify."

That got my attention. My head snapped up to him.

"I figured I'd give you a heads up. I'm not sure how comfortable with it you'll be, and I don't want you to get blindsided if I get subpoenaed. You've already been through enough with this stupid system."

My eyes sank back to my lap. Shrug.

"Bella," he leaned forward on his elbows. "I know you're in there. You made excellent progress last week. What's holding you back?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but a fist had wedged its way into my throat. I couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. Tears welled up in my eyes and I blinked them back. I closed my mouth and swallowed. Tried again. Failed.

"It's okay, Bella. Breathe."

I opened my mouth and tried again. "Gasoline," I choked.

"Gasoline?"

I nodded. "Gasoline."

He nodded and I could tell he was trying to make sense of what I was saying. He was good at hiding his emotions, but I could feel his perplexity and confusion. But I couldn't explain it to him… I just couldn't.

"Let's switch gears here for a bit, okay? No more heavy stuff. Maybe that'll make it easier for you."

Nod.

"What book are you reading right now?"

"_To Kill a Mockingbird."_

"Good one. Any particular reason?"

"Well I've wanted to read it since before…"

"Before?"

I trembled. Inhaled. Grit my teeth. "Since before I met James."

He nodded. "So, like high school?"

Nod.

"Anything special about it?"

My nails dug into the wooden armrests. "No."

"How's work going?"

Shrug. "Same."

He continued on like this, asking inane questions for over an hour before finally giving up, leaning back in his desk chair and scribbling into my file for the remaining half hour that I was in his office. Not that I minded. I was content to stare at the picture propped up in the frame behind him. The picture of a small woman, short cropped black hair, pale skin and whimsical brow. She was ducked under his arm, smiling at the camera as he nuzzled her cheek with his nose. Her smile wasn't fake, wasn't posed. It was real and was mirrored in her eyes.

I think I looked like that at one point.

I eyed the platinum wedding band on the young doctor's left hand.

I didn't feel envy.

I did not feel resentment toward the little circle of steel wrapped around Doctor Whitlock's finger. It was a symbol of slavery and sacrifice, and I'd done enough of that in my lifetime. I did not feel an ounce of emotion toward the ring on his finger; rather there was a dispassionate coolness in my heart that yielded nothing but detachment and disinterest.

Marriage is a metaphor for ownership. And I could not be owned. I _would not _be owned, ever again.

Doctor Whitlock attempted once more at probing my thoughts a few minutes before Officer Montenegro came back to retrieve me. But still, I could not answer him. I continued to sit in my chair as he manipulated and maneuvered his way through my psyche—in the same way a doctor might when running experiments on a live human being. His questions were none less painful, but I sat in my chair, anchored by chains that had nothing to do with those I was forced to wear when I left my cell.

But he could not break through the iron bars of my soul—I would not let him. I _couldn't. _The pain was nearly too much to bear and I refused to let myself feel anything. Not here. Not this place. So I sat there, avoiding his questions until Officer Montenegro rapped on the door, trapped in a prison that I would give my life just to be free of.

A prison that did not have walls, did not have iron doors, but a prison that was free to extend as far as I did.

A prison that followed me—trapped me—everywhere I went.

-X-X-X-X-X-

**Block B, Cell 226  
>April 12, 2010<br>9:49 pm**

Lights out was in ten minutes and I struggled to get through the end of the chapter—I hated putting a book in the middle of a chapter. It just meant I'd have to start over again the next morning to remember where I was, and that wasted time. Not like it really mattered, since time was unlimited here.

Giving up, I dog-eared the page and closed the book, sliding it under my cot. I scrubbed at my eyes before sliding down on the stiff mattress, pulling the thin wool blanket over me. I rolled over onto my side, staring at the wall, counting the number of dried paint drops on the cement blocks next to my bed. Rose rolled over on top of me, shifting to get comfortable.

"Bella?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you… do you think that God has a plan for us?"

I tried very hard not to roll my eyes. "What do you mean, Rosalie?"

"Well, I mean… if He had a plan, do you think this was a part of it? It just… doesn't seem… right."

I sighed. "Well Rose, I think you fucked up the plan a little bit when you decided to go ape shit on your fiancé and his bachelor party."

"Maybe," she agreed thoughtfully. "But I mean… maybe that was in His plan. And… I don't know, maybe this whole being in prison thing was_… is_… a good thing?"

"Rose, you know I don't do religion, but I can pretty much guarantee that it isn't in God's plan for _anyone _to kill another human being. Isn't that one of the _Commandments _or whatever those things are called? _Thou shalt not kill _and all?"

She shifted. "I don't know, Bell… I just, I feel like I've changed, since I've been in here, you know? Like, when I first came in here I was all mean and bitter and bitchy and 'woe-is-me'—"

"Well Jesus, Ro, you had a right to be!"

"But even before, I was like that. Self-righteous and arrogant and self-centered and… well, I was just a bitch."

"You still are."

"You mean I haven't changed?" her voice was small, quiet… so different from the strong, independent—as independent as you can be in prison—Rosalie Hale that I knew. I rolled over to stare at the underside of her bunk.

"Rose… have you… have you been going to church?"

She shifted. Hesitated. "I… I thought I would try it today, you know? See what it was like. I'm getting tired of watching and doing the same shit every day so I thought I would change it up. And the reverend… pastor… priest, whoever he was, said some stuff that I really liked today."

"Like how it was a part of God's plan for you to kill five people? Sounds more like the leader of a cult to me."

"No," she responded. "Something like… how we were all God's children and He forgave us for all our sins. And how… how He loved us unconditionally and wanted that love in return, and how if we were faithful and repent, He would forgive us."

"Charles Manson called his followers his children. So did Jim Jones, I believe. He called himself a reverend too."

"Bella, stop it! That's not the point."

"Then what is the point, Rosalie?"

The lights suddenly went out with a loud clap and the cell block was smothered in darkness. There were sounds of people settling in, getting as comfortable as they could before going to sleep for the night. I rolled over toward the wall again, thinking Rosalie was finished.

"My point, _Isabella,"_ she hissed, "is that I'm not sorry for what I did to Royce King and all those men. But I _am _sorry for their families and their mamas and their friends and all the people that knew and loved them. And I think _that _is what's changing me. Before… before all this, I never thought twice about what I did and how it hurt someone else. I only cared about me. But this time… this time I'm… I'm sorry I hurt those people."

She wasn't making any sense to me, so I let it drop by pretending I was asleep. She sighed and rolled over, shifting slightly before settling down for the night. I lay in bed awake, staring at the wall as I tossed her words around inside my head. Tossing them around so much that eventually I grew tired. I decided to stop mulling over her spiritual enlightening and instead tried to focus on something else.

My focus on something else wasn't easy to come by. I didn't have a whole lot that I wanted to think about. So I rolled over.

And tried my best to fall asleep.

-X-X-X-X-X-

_The bathtub was full of water… so full that it looked like if I were to get in it, water would slosh over the sides._

_He'd taken down the shower curtain. Removed everything from the shower rack so that there was only the tub, the tile wall and the water._

_The water and the ice cubes that floated across the top._

"_I want to try something new, baby," he whispered in my ear, his hands moving lightly from the junction between my shoulder and neck all the way down my arms. I had goosebumps. I was shivering._

_He pressed his fully clothed front against my naked back. His hands came around my front and cupped my breasts. "I think you'll like it," he whispered in my ear._

_He edged me forward to the tub as I stared at it apprehensively. His games had been growing sicker and sicker recently, but the physical pain was something I could handle—something I'd grown used to. I could hide the evidence and eventually it would stop hurting. I just had to take it without emotion, without showing signs of struggle or pain, and it would be over soon._

_This did not look like the usual._

_With his hips and his knees, he thrust into me, pushing me forward with more strength than I was prepared to resist. I fell forward but managed to catch myself on the sides of the tub, bracing myself above the cold water. But he would have none of it. Grasping my hair by the roots he yanked my head back. He held it there, pulled back at an unnatural angle before shoving my face into the water. The cold water hit me like a Mac truck, causing adrenaline to rush through my body while pins stabbed my face. Air rushed from my mouth before I could remind myself to hold it in and I found myself struggling against his grasp in a matter of seconds._

_My face ached from the chill of the water and my lungs burned due to lack of air. I struggled, and when he wouldn't let me up I panicked, trashing wildly with my arms and legs. Of course, he did nothing but pin my hips against the side of the tub and thrust my face down further but I still thrashed and squirmed, terrified._

_Just as I felt like I was beginning to lose consciousness, he yanked my head above water. I coughed and spluttered, still kicking and struggling as I gasped in large gulps of air. _

"_Next time you disobey me, you'll drown," he rasped before letting me go and standing up. "Get in the water."_

_I climbed in, slowly sinking into the water and trying not to let him hear the hiss of discomfort escape my lips. I eased myself into the water as slowly as I could before I felt his hand on my shoulder as he shoved me deeper into the water. This time I couldn't stop the gasp of shock as the water surrounded my body, sending immediate pain to all of my limbs._

"_Lay down." _

_My eyes met his, wide and horrified._

"_I said… lay. Down."_

_If I lay down in the water, I would be totally submerged… I wouldn't be able to breathe…_

_I found myself being forcefully submerged again and I found myself trashing once more, beating my arms against the sides of the tub and clawing at his arms so that he would let me up. His other hand came down and wrapped around my throat, squeezing out the remaining air I had left in me. He brought me again to the brink of consciousness. Again, he let me up just as I was beginning to lose it._

_He ordered me to lay down again. _

_Again, I hesitated._

_Again, he forced me under the water._

_On the fifth submersion, I promised myself that if I had any will to survive, I would lay down in the water this time. I would do as he said. Because each time he held me down longer and longer, and I knew that there were only a few more times that I could take it before I drowned._

_When he finally let me up, coughing and spluttering, he repeated his demand._

_This time, I slowly sank beneath the surface of the water until my entire body was submerged._

_I held my breath for as long as I could, despite the horror and fear wrapped around my heart like a metal vise. I closed my eyes and thought of my dad and my mom. How happy their faces were at my college graduation. At my wedding. How proud of me that had seemed, how sure that they were sending me in the right direction, entrusting me into the right hands._

_I felt a brush against my leg and felt his arm reaching for the plug in the drain. Allowing myself to feel a smidgen of hope, I smiled to myself as the water drained slowly from the tub. I had survived this one. I was going to make it through another day. It was going to be alright, I was going to—_

_The plug clamped down on the drain with a thug._

_My nose was above the water, I now realized._

_My lungs were burning with the need to exhale, and in a moment of exhaustion I let out all of the air I had, taking a slow breath in through my nose. It was difficult, figuring out how to regulate some sort of breathing pattern this way, but I would have to in order to make this work. _

_In order to survive._

_Suddenly, the lights in the bathroom went out. I was surrounded by complete and total darkness. But I couldn't move. I didn't dare bring my head above the water. I had no way of knowing if he was still in the bathroom or if he had left. If he was still there and he saw me lift my head out… _

_I would die._

_I tried my best to keep my breathing as regular as possible. Though my heart was pounding, my bones were trembling and I was beginning to lose feeling in my legs, I continued to focus on my breathing. In and out. In slowly, out slowly. In as slowly and gently as possible to avoid inhaling any air, out slowly so as not to give the impression that I was scared._

_In. Out. _

_In._

_Out._

_Suddenly, the lights flickered on. I opened my eyes and saw him standing over the edge of the tub, leaning forward with a maniacal grin on his face. His eyes were dancing with evil and Satanic glee as he held up a red canister. It looked like the one he used to…_

_No. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't…_

"_Cold, baby?" I could barely make out through the water._

_Liquid was poured over top of the water. Immediately I closed my eyes to keep it from getting into them. Due to the fact that my nose was above water, I could smell what he was pouring on top of me. And the smell would remain with me for the rest of my life to haunt me._

_Gasoline._

_I opened my eyes despite the fear of getting anything into them. It was difficult to see through the water, but I could still make out enough of his form, his expressions and his actions. I could see as he reached into his back pocket to pull something out. _

_I watched as his flipped it open._

_Watched as he flicked his wrist._

_My heart pounded._

_Watched as he dropped the lit match on top of me._

Someone was screaming.

But this time, with a jolt, I woke up to realize that it was me.

**Still with me? :/**

**FYI - Bella is not burned; she does not carry any physical scars from this incident. Due to the fact that gasoline floats on water (if you've ever seen _Free Willy _3, there's a scene where oil from a spill gets lit on fire in an accident) and that Bella was nearly completely submerged beneath the water, she did not get burned. The water was cooled with the ice to both torture her in the beginning and to counteract the heat when it was lit on fire. Water requires a lot of energy to heat and the amount of gasoline he poured over the top would have burned out (thus extinguishing the fire) before the water could heat enough to cause any permanent damage to her. It was merely used as a method of psychological torture, to scare her more than to harm her. **

**As with any story, more of her past will be gradually introduced later on (as I'm sure you want details about her killing her husband). However this was more about developing her as the character she is now and introducing her in her current environment. We'll see happy Bella from her past (as well as a not-so-happy Bella au passe) and eventually you'll see a happy Bella in the future (as I will never end my stories with anything other than a ExB HEA. Not to spoil anything, but...)**

**I can't guarantee when the next chapter will be posted, but I'm hoping relatively soon. RL has calmed down for me quite a bit and I've begun work on updates for my other stories (I'm incredibly behind in both of them, unfortunately). However, if you'd like to review / PM me in the meantime, I'd love to talk with you whenever I get a moment! I'm known for revealing too much about the nature of the plot in some of my responses and spoiling things because I get too excited, so for your own good, please don't ask me about what's going to happen next because I will more than likely tell you in an effort to appease your worries and where's the fun in that?**

**Until next time, my lovelies :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for the responses everyone!**

**I keep forgetting to mention things, and here's another one: the beginning of this story is going to be fairly graphic in nature (in terms of physical abuse). It will dial down a little bit as the story progresses, but not by a whole lot. If this sort of subject matter bothers you, I urge you to skip over these parts. I'll make sure I put a warning at the beginning of every chapter that contains such material. So, that being said:**

**This chapter contains material that may not be suitable for all readers, discretion is advised.**

**NON INNOCENTEM**

**Chapter Three**

_~You know I love you, right? I just don't want anything to happen to you~_

**Washington Corrections Center for Women  
>Mess Hall<br>May 5, 2010  
>6:35 pm<strong>

Rosalie picked at her food, barely taking any interest in it at all. She had come back from therapy with Doctor Whitlock about an hour ago and this pattern of behavior was easily associated with an intense session. Her eyes were glassy and distant, but she tried to look tough by keeping any tears at bay and glaring at anyone that even looked at her.

"Rose, you gotta eat something," I prodded for the fifth time.

"Jesus Christ, Bella. Get off it, would you? I'm not hungry."

I looked down at my plate, scooping a few green beans onto my fork. "You will be later tonight if you don't eat," I mumbled softly.

"Who the fuck are you, my mother?"

It took everything in me not to cringe at her biting tone.

_She's just upset, _I reminded myself. _She's always like this afterward. She'll be fine in the morning._

"I'm just trying to look out for you," I muttered softly.

"Yeah, well I don't fucking need you to," she snapped harshly. Her words were like whips on my skin, sharp and cruel. "I can take care of my own damn self, alright? I did perfectly fine on my own before you even fucking got here."

Nodding, I angled my head toward my plate to indicate I was through talking with her. I hated when she was like this. It made me feel lonelier than ever. My mother hadn't written to me in over three years—not that we had the best relationship in the world, and her letters, even at the beginning, were strained and forced—and my father was completely out of the picture, something I chose not to dwell on. I had lost touch with all of my friends after marrying James, so none of them really thought to contact me either.

Rose was all I had, and in moments like these, I had no one.

I couldn't let the loneliness get to me, I couldn't let it bother me. Consume me. I wasn't going to survive if I let that happen. I had to push aside my emotions and right now, that was the only way I was going to be able to stop myself from breaking down.

Squaring my shoulders, I stood from the table and grabbed my tray. "Forgive me for being the only one that gives a shit about you," I spat harshly. When her eyes met mine, I had to fight against wincing. The blue was hard as ice, cutting and cold. I stared back at her for a moment, my fingers gripping the tray tightly as I tried to see a glimmer of my friend in her eyes.

She was gone.

Without another word, I turned from the table and marched to the trash cans. I dumped my tray and turned toward the officer on duty. "I'd like to go back to my cell now, please."

I held my wrists out, waiting for the cuffs to be clapped on. Without turning to look back, I followed the officer out the door and down to the cell block. I didn't recognize the woman in front of me. I just noted the austere bun and hard facial expression that seemed to be a characteristic of the female officers that worked in this ward. Not like they really had anything to be bitter about—they weren't locked in an eight by twelve foot box for eighteen out of twenty-four hours of the day.

She released me to my cell and I sat on my bed, pulling _Breakfast at Tiffany's _off the floor—so far it wasn't anything like the movie, which I'd grown to love in my teenage years. I was slightly disappointed, yet intrigued by the new story that was unfolding. Flipping open the book to the page I had stopped at, I turned my eyes toward the page and began to read.

I looked up when I heard the cell door sliding open. I watched as Rosalie walked through the door and held her wrists out for the cuffs to be removed. The door slid closed and she turned toward me. Her face was still hard but her eyes were softer, more like the Rosalie I knew.

Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. "I don't apologize," she said to me.

I nodded. "I know."

She came over and sat next to me on the cot. She pulled her legs up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them and rested her chin on her knees. I waited for her to speak, but she didn't say anything. I made to turn back to my book when her voice sounded out, soft and hesitant.

"I was pregnant," she said softly.

My breath caught.

"I was pregnant when he… when Royce…"

Unsure of what else to do, I lay my book face down on the cot, folding my hands in my lap and waiting for her to go on.

She released a shuddering breath. "I haven't ever told anyone about that… before today."

I nodded. She must have known about the question that was burning through my mind because she took a deep breath and said so softly I could barely hear her, "I lost it."

"Rose…"

She took another breath, more sure of herself this time. "I was actually on my way to tell him," she said. "I don't know why I chose _then_, the night of his bachelor party to do it. It was…" she chuckled humorlessly, "stupid, I guess. But I'd just found out that afternoon, and he went straight from work to the bar so I hadn't had a chance to tell him. I was… excited."

I wasn't sure how much more I wanted to hear. Rosalie had never opened up like this before, had never given me much detail about her personal life before prison. It made me wary—I wasn't sure how bad it could have been.

She took another breath before continuing. "The doctors couldn't understand why I was bleeding so much. I mean, the internal damage was pretty severe but they didn't think it was bad enough to cause that much blood. I was the only one who knew about the baby… I had a fairly good idea about what was going on."

My stomach rolled as I imagined being in her position. Lying in a bed barely conscious, surrounded by a bunch of strange men probing at her body, trying to figure out what she already knew. I tightened my clasp on my hands to keep from reaching out to her.

"They told me I was eight weeks. Do you know what a baby looks like at eight weeks, Bella?"

I shook my head.

"I read about it in recovery. They say that the heart has already started beating, and that the baby will start to grow fingers and toes. And that… that the baby has a developing face, with eyelids and ears and a nose. A baby at eight weeks is a _person_, Bella, not just a tiny ball of cells. I was carrying a _person_ inside of me."

I felt my jaw clench.

"I had always wanted children. I… I think I was born to be a mom. But Royce… he took that away from me. He killed my baby and the doctor's said I can't have children anymore. I… I don't know if I would have killed him if I hadn't been pregnant. That's what Jasper asked me about today… why I retaliated so violently. I just… he killed my baby."

This time I did reach out to her, and she didn't flinch away. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her toward me, brushing a hand down over her hair while she cried into my shoulder. I didn't know what to say to comfort her—I couldn't tell her it was going to be alright, because clearly it wasn't. I couldn't offer her any advice, because I'd never been pregnant. I'd been raped by a man that was supposed to love me as well, but that wasn't what she was upset about. I couldn't think of a damn thing to console her or to provide her with any sort of comfort.

It was the most helpless I'd felt since…

I held her for the next three hours until the lights were shut out on us.

And even then I continued to hold her through the night.

-X-X-X-X-X-

**Dr. Whitlock's Office  
>May 6, 2010<br>10:27 am**

"Rose told me about what happened to her… why she killed her fiancé."

"Did she now?"

I nodded.

"I hate to sound cliché here, but how does that make you feel?"

I processed his question and tried to formulate a response. "Angry… that something like that would happen to her. Protective. Sad. Helpless, because I don't know what to say or how to make her feel better—"

He nodded, jotting something down. "I don't want you to feel helpless, Bella. Making her feel better is my job, not yours."

"I understand that, Doctor Whitlock—"

"Jasper."

"But what else am I supposed to do when she tells me these things? We're confined in a cell together for the majority of the day, it's not like I can just walk away and pretend like she's never told anything. She's… she's opening up to me for a reason. She wants my help."

He nodded again. "It's an understandable reaction. One of our basic human survival needs is that of social interaction, and society teaches us that when someone speaks to you, it is appropriate to respond. However in this case, and I have to do my best to stick to doctor-patient confidentiality here, I think just listening to her is all that Rosalie needs right now. She's opening up about something very fragile, something very damaging to her psyche and I personally think that the only thing you _should _do is listen to her. Let me worry about all the other stuff."

I nodded. It made sense.

"How else does it make you feel?"

I swallowed, thinking. "Guilty."

He raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"Well, I mean she's opening up to me. But I haven't opened up to her about anything ever."

He shook his head. "This isn't a game of tit-for-tat, I don't think. Rosalie has kept a lot of things bottled up over the years, and for her to open up to you means that she's ready and willing to let you in. And sometimes it's the best thing to just listen."

I mulled it over in my head, wondering if I agreed with him or not.

"What about you, Bella? We've spent a fair amount of time talking about Rosalie today. While she is a fascinating character, I'd rather focus on you while I've got you in here. Do you have anything you'd like to open up about?"

_Fuck._

"Nope."

"I promise I'll just listen."

_Right._

"Bella… I don't want to push you, but I need you to talk to me. Your parole hearing is coming up, and in order for me to help you I need to be able to make an accurate testimony. I can't lie."

"So tell them the truth," I said to him, looking him dead in the eye.

"Which is what?" he responded, not breaking eye contact.

"That I'm not innocent."

His head dropped.

"I'm not innocent, Doctor Whitlock. I shot my husband, and I'm not going to attempt to hide that fact behind some façade of a beaten, broken, small-town housewife who was trying to defend herself. I sat on the porch with a shotgun and waited for him to come home. He didn't even make it out of the truck before I'd put a bullet through his forehead—he hadn't touched me that day. I knew what I was doing and I don't regret it. I never will."

"It isn't a façade, Bella."

I balked. "I beg your pardon?"

He pulled out photos from my file and began to lay them in front of me. Slowly, methodically. The glossy eight by eleven pictures showed all kinds of injuries—bruises, welts, broken bones, swollen limbs and crude lacerations. I didn't need to see them. I knew whose they were.

"Your defense attorney found these at the hospital in Forks. You were treated by a… Doctor Cullen, correct?"

I didn't respond. I couldn't. My blood had run cold.

"It's strange how these were found at the hospital, and not the police department. In fact, Doctor Cullen is reported to have taken the photos for his records at the hospital because you _refused _to go to the police. Why didn't you go to the police, Bella? Why didn't you report it?"

I was struggling to breathe.

"What are you hiding from?"

"I'm not hiding," I gasped out.

"Oh really?" his voice began to rise. "Then why are you so set on staying in this place? Why is a prison cell so much better for you than the real world? What has got you so scared that you're willing to give up your life to hide behind bars?"

Angrily, I stood from my chair. "You don't know a fucking thing about what you're talking about! You think because you have all those degrees on your wall from all those fancy schools that you have a _clue _about what's going on, but you have _NO fucking _idea. You sit here and pretend like you know the answers to everything in my life when you know absolutely nothing about what even happened to put me here."

He was calm again, sitting in his chair and staring up at me, challenging. "So tell me what happened then."

I was shaking I was so angry. I placed my hands on the desk and leaned over, right into his face. "Do you know what it's like, Doctor Whitlock, to be tied up in a chair and locked in a basement for a week? Do you know what it's like to be eating your first meal in days, only to be punched so hard in the stomach you throw it all back up and then are forced to eat your own vomit? Or what about being submerged in a bathtub while a fire is lit on top of you? Do you know about any of that?"

"No, Bella, I don't."

"What about being raped while your movements are controlled by a rope pulling you up and down?" I pulled up the sleeve of my jumped and shoved my forearm toward him, showing him the scar. "How about your arm being held over a stove top until your skin melted off?" I thrust my head up, showing the underside of my chin, where a scar ran from one side to the other. "What about being told that you're so ugly, he wishes he could cut your face off, because fucking a faceless skull would be easier than fucking you?"

I looked back down at Doctor Whitlock. "Do you know any of _that?_"

"No, I daresay I don't." He leaned forward, bringing his face close to mine. "But tell me, Bella, how does that prove that the beaten housewife image is not real?"

His question knocked the breath from me. "W… what?"

"I don't know about the horrors you've been through. You're absolutely right, and I can't begin to fathom how you managed to survive that. But how does any of that prove anything other than the fact that you were a victim of spousal abuse and that your actions against your husband were those of a woman desperate to survive?"

"I… I…"

He snatched the pictures from his desk and tossed them haphazardly into the file before snapping it closed. He looked back at me. "I don't argue with you that you aren't innocent. But I wouldn't go so far as to say that you're entirely guilty, either."

-X-X-X-X-X-

**Kitchen  
>May 6, 2010<br>1:19 pm**

I reached back with a gloved hand to itch behind my ear. The hairnets always bothered me and I was beginning to wonder if I could put in a request for a work-detail change simply because of them. That and the obnoxious bitch standing to the left of me, complaining about how disgusting the dishes were and how she didn't understand why she had to have the worst job at the facility.

I wanted to ask her what kind of job she expected in a prison, but I knew better. I stuck my hands into the sink of warm water, pulled out several plates and began to arrange them in the rack that I was about to slide into the dishwasher.

_Ten more minutes and I'm finished. Ten more minutes and I'm finished._

"This is so gross," she mumbled for the fifteenth time.

"Jesus Christ, shut the fuck up!" someone called from the other side of the kitchen.

"Excuse me, what did you just say to me?"

I ducked my head lower. Of course someone would choose _now _to start a fight.

"You heard me, you dumb-ass cunt. If I have to hear you bitch any more in the next ten minutes I'm going to come over there and rip those fake-ass extensions right out of your head and stick your face where the sun don't shine!"

Scrub the dried rice off the plate. Add more soap to the water. Scrub harder. Rinse with hot water. Place in rack. Repeat.

"You want to try me, you nasty-ass bitch? Come at me!"

Everything seemed to happen in a blur, but suddenly there was a flurry of dark blue, orange and grey suits and fists went flying. Women screamed, someone cursed and slaps rang out. Almost as soon as the fight started the doors burst open and officers rushed in brandishing clubs and pepper spray. Shouts were added to the sounds that were echoing off the walls of the kitchen as the guards jumped into the fray.

Something ran into my back and I was catapulted forward. As luck would have it, I was pushed into an officer that was currently trying to fend off another inmate. I tried to flinch back, holding up my arms to proclaim my innocence, but something cracked down on the top of my head. I was confused for a moment before a pounding ache presented itself behind my eyes. My head felt heavy on top of my neck, swaying back and forth and causing my balance to shift. My eyelids grew heavy and I swayed dangerously to one side.

My head cracked again against something as I fell, but this time I didn't feel any pain. I only took comfort in the fact that I was now laying down against the cool tile of the floor, providing slight relief to the burning on my forehead.

-X-X-X-X-X-

"Isabella? Isabella can you hear me?"

_No and I don't want to. Go away._

"Her eyelids fluttered."

_No they fucking didn't go away._

"She's regaining consciousness. Nurse, can you hold this underneath her nose?"

I was torn. Opening my mouth to breathe would give away the fact that I was awake, but keeping it closed and continuing to breathe through my nose would mean that I had to smell that—

_Ugh._

An acrid stench filled my nose, making my eyes water. They popped open almost immediately and I was met with dim lights and blurry images of two faces; a man and a woman. The woman proceeded to wipe a cool cloth along my face while the man spoke softly to me.

"Isabella, my name is Doctor Masen. I need you to try and focus on my face, please. I'm going to need to perform a few tests to ensure that you don't have a concussion."

A light was shined into my eyes none too gently and I winced. He held a finger up in front of my face and moved it back and forth, side to side.

I was struggling to find my tongue and form words, but I was able to gurgle out, "'m I s'pposedto follow your finger?"

He didn't chuckle, didn't smile. His voice was condescending and rude. "Yes, Mrs. Hunter that is usually assumed."

I didn't like his cocky attitude and I forced myself to get ahold of bearings. My vision was becoming clearer and I was able to focus on the finger moving back and forth. I didn't get a good look at his face, but I didn't really want to.

Because I was sure that if I looked at him I would be tempted to slap him.

I began batting the nurse's hands away. "I'm fine, quit touching me."

"Mrs. Hunter, you need to lay still. You suffered too massive blows to the head and I haven't been able to run tests yet to check for any damage. I'd suggest calming down before you cause any further injury."

"Fuck you," I spat, making to sit up in the bed.

Two cold hands clamped down on my shoulders and pushed me back onto the mattress, holding me there. He placed his face directly in front of mine and it was then that I was able to fully get a good look at his face. A shock of bronze hair sat atop his head, seemingly coiffed to look like a mussed up disarray—though I could faintly see stiff strands of hair, implicating that he gelled his hair to look the way it did.

_Pansy ass._

His skin was pale, but not unpleasantly so. It looked soft and smooth. His eyes were a shocking green that I'd only ever seen in make-up adds after being enhanced through various photo editing tools. His cheekbones were sharp and angular, his nose straight and slightly pointed. His lips were full and pink. His chin and jawline were sharp and chiseled.

His good looks made me hate him even more.

He was still looking me in the eye. His voice was harsh and cold. "Isabella, these beds are built with restraints for a reason. Don't make me use them."

His breath was minty, like he'd just been sucking on an Altoid. His cologne was spicy and tangy.

I narrowed my eyes at him, debating whether or not I wanted to spit in his face.

He reached over to grab a chart from a table that was sitting next to me. "I need you to answer a couple of questions for me, so I can file a report." He glanced up at me. "You _do _know how to do that, yes?"

"Fuck you."

"A simple yes or no will suffice," he replied, clicking his pen. I waited, my blood boiling.

"Do you feel any sort of pain in the head?" He asked. "Any sort of headache or throbbing? If so how sharp is it and how frequent?"

"I thought I was only supposed to answer with yes or no," I responded, crossing my arms over my chest.

He glared at me.

"Headache?"

"Yes, that typically happens after getting beat over the head."

"Just answer yes or no, Mrs. Hunter."

"Swan."

"I beg your pardon?"

I sighed. "It's Swan. I'm getting my name changed."

He smirked cruelly. "Not while you're here, you aren't. It says Hunter in your charts, therefore that is what I'm going to call you. Now answer the question. Do you have a headache?"

"Yes," I bit out.

"Sharp?"

"No."

"Dull?"

"Yes."

"Do you feel any nausea?"

"Nope, I feel fine."

He quirked an eyebrow at me.

"Yes," I relented.

"Strong?"

"Yes."

"Is there any ringing in your ears?"

"Yes."

His brow furrowed as he scribbled something in the chart.

"What are you writing?"

"I ask the questions, Mrs. Hunter. Do you feel pain anywhere else?"

I shook my head. "No."

My arm actually hurt like a motherfucker but I'd be damned if I told him that. Seeing as my comment wouldn't contain the words yes or no, I assumed he wouldn't even listen anyway.

"I'm going to begin the physical examination," he said and I realized that he had a tape recorder in one hand. Placing the clipboard and the recorder on the bedside table he approached me, rolling up the sleeves on his lab coat. I sank further back into the cot, shrinking away from him. His brow puckered as he noticed the movement. Something flashed in his eyes, but I didn't care to think too much about it.

His cool fingers pressed to my temples, and I was right about his pale skin—even the pads of his slender fingers were soft. They traced down my face to underneath my jaw, feeling the glands there. He asked me to sit up, which I did with some effort. He noticed.

"Having difficulty?"

"Just dizzy," I snapped.

He unwrapped his stethoscope from around his neck and stuck the ends in his ears. "Breathe normally," he commanded as he pressed on my chest. I took normal breaths, focusing on the stucco on the ceiling. I could feel his eyes on me, tracing my features and no doubt noticing the scars. Thankfully, he stayed quiet. He murmured numbers to the nurse, who wrote them diligently on my chart. He flashed a light in my eyes once more, checked my ears and stared into the back of my throat. He had me stand and walk in a straight line and then close my eyes and hold my arms straight for ten seconds.

I didn't have to be watching to know that I wobbled. A lot.

I sat back down on the cot while he spoke softly to the nurse. "I'm afraid she's got a concussion so I want to keep her here for observation overnight. Make sure she stays awake for the next two hours and watch for any vomiting or fainting. We'll know if there's any internal damage that way."

He came back over to me. "Mrs. Hunter we're going to go ahead and keep you here overnight. You'll need to stay awake for the—"

"Next two hours, yeah, I know."

Again with the eyebrow.

"My… husband was a doctor. I know how these things go."

Something about that seemed to bother him and his eyes narrowed for a second. He blinked it away and nodded once. "Make sure you drink whatever the nurse gives you and try not to move around too much, I don't want to come in here tomorrow and see any further damage.

I lifted my arm without thinking to salute him and then winced. Of course the observant motherfucker caught it and glanced down at my arm. I could tell he noticed the scar from the burn because he looked at it for a few seconds too long.

"Did you lie to me about feeling any other pain?" He voice was furious for a reason I couldn't comprehend. I looked up into his eyes to see a fierce fire burning in his green irises, catching me off guard and causing me to cower into the mattress.

"No," I whimpered, lying again.

"Tell me the truth!" he roared, his voice so loud I cringed.

"_Did you sleep with him, you filthy slut?" he roared, a hand clapping against my face so hard I bit on my lip, drawing blood. _

"_No!" I cried. "I love _you, _only you! Why would I sleep with someone else?"_

"_Because you're a whore, just like your mother! Now answer me again! Did you sleep with him? Tell me the truth!"_

"_No!" I wailed as he grabbed my arm, hauling me back toward the stove where I'd just been cooking pasta not two minutes ago. He shoved the pot of boiling noodles onto the floor causing hot water and pasta to come leaping over the sides. Some of it splashed and I cried out in pain as it burned the skin of my thighs beneath my shorts. Yanking my arm, he held it over the burning stovetop. My eyes widened in horror as I looked back at him._

"_James, what are you doing?"_

"_I read about this in the newspaper once…"_

"_James!" _

"_Didn't seem to work for that guy. Stupid wifey managed to get away and call the cops…"_

"_James, stop! James stop, it's burning me!"_

"_Tell me the truth! Did you sleep with him?"_

"_No! Oh God, oh God…" I began to struggle, trying to pull my arm away from him. But it was no use, his fingers were like manacles around my wrists, holding me firm above the stovetop. He wrapped one arm around my waist, drawing me tight against him, making it even more difficult to struggle. _

_I screamed, the pain and burning quickly becoming too much for me to handle. _

"_James, please," I begged, tears streaming down my face. "I didn't sleep with him! I wouldn't do that to you… ow, fuck!... please just let go of me! James, please!"_

"_I love it when you beg, baby," he said, smiling down at me. _

"_Please, James, stop! Oh my God…"_

"Mrs. Hunter? Mrs. Hunter? Isabella?"

I blinked, meeting Doctor Masen's eyes. Green, not blue.

"Isabella, are you okay?"

"Yes," I answered mechanically.

"Does your arm hurt?"

"Yes," I answered again.

His fingers pressed against my arm, moving gently across the scar until he pressed on a tender spot. When I winced, he probed even more gently—impossibly gently—to see if he could find the source of my pain.

"I don't think it's a break," he murmured, more to himself that to me. "Nurse Cope, can you get my a sling?"

He turned to me. "I'm going to put your arm in this. If it gets more painful instead of less, let me know tomorrow and we'll have it fitted for a cast. If you have any more difficulties tonight, be sure and let Nurse Cope know."

With that he turned on his heel and strode from the room without another word. I watched as the door swung closed behind him and I was left alone with the senile nurse.

"You'll have to forgive him, dear," she said as she gently began to wrap my arm. "He's one of the newer ones and he's in a foul temper today. Normally he's fairly tolerable."

I looked down and watched her work. "Why is he in a bad mood?" I asked.

She sighed. "He doesn't particularly like working here; he prefers the hospital where the patients aren't as… difficult." She looked up at me and winked. "He's only here once a week though, so you'll see him for a follow-up tomorrow and then he'll be gone and you won't have to worry about him anymore."

I remained silent.

"I also think there's something about your case that particularly bothers him. He was reading over your file while you were being brought in and he was… edgy. More harsh than usual. But like I said, I wouldn't worry about it. You won't have to see him much more after tonight."

It was the only thing that had made me happy in months.

**So… there. **

**Obviously the feelings between the two of them aren't going to be the same throughout the whole story. And obviously we're going to find out more about Edward as we go. I'm excited for that part. That's the last we will see of Edward for a bit.. now we're moving on to the parole hearing, which is gonna take some time to perfect.**

**Feelings? Thoughts? Comments?**

**Love to hear from you! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you all for the lovely responses. You're all wonderful and amazing. I'm sorry I haven't gotten back to very many of them, but I read and appreciated each and every one. :) Also, I apologize for the late update... I had to do some stuff, like pass IB exams, graduate high school and start getting ready for college. Don't hate me!**

**I don't think I ever mentioned this—seems to be a pattern with me and this story, don't it :P—but this whole thang, especially this chapter, was inspired by the Miranda Lambert song **_**Gunpowder and Lead. **_**If you haven't heard it, I highly recommend it, if not to connect with this story then to hear a friggin good song. **

**That aside, I've based the some of the following proceedings on videos I've watched on Charles Manson's numerous parole hearings (I find him rather fascinating to watch, personally) and other documents I've found throughout my research. I cannot guarantee that it will be fully authentic and perfect because I am not a lawyer nor have I gone through any sort of court proceedings. I'm trying my very best to make it as real as possible, but please no flames if it isn't perfect.**

**Some FYI's: **(this is based on information I found for New Jersey with the assumption that it is the same in all states, because I couldn't find information about parole in Washington State as easily)

- An inmate is eligible for parole (in NJ, just pretend it's WA) after a third of their sentence has been served. Bella's sentence was twelve years, she has served four.

- There are four hearings involved in granting an individual parole: initial, panel, rescission and revocation. For the sake of time (and to get the story moving) I combined the initial and the panel hearing in this chapter.

- There are usually two members on a panel, however, because I wanted to fit the Volturi trio in there I used a bit of creative license.

- The rescission hearing takes place when an inmate is granted parole and the conditions of/date of release are set. That will not appear as an actual event, but will be skimmed over in the next chapter.

**I also decided to go against my last author's note and include Edward in this chapter. It wasn't my original intention, but I thought here would be a good place to do some character development. So we get a little more of him this go round.**

**Enjoy!**

**NON INNOCENTEM**

**Chapter Four**

_~I've never met anyone like you, Bella. You're so brave, so strong~_

**Washington Corrections Center for Women  
>Block B, Cell 226<br>June 10, 2010  
>5:09 am<strong>

I rolled around on the cot, my nerves firing rapidly. I hadn't gotten more than two hours of sleep the night before, my eyes refusing to shut as I pondered the events that were about to transpire the next morning—_this _morning. At eleven I would be facing a parole board, who would listen to testimony from Doctor Whitlock, my father and a few others who were testifying on my behalf to either leave prison… or stay.

I wasn't entirely sure why anyone would be adamant about my release—_Doctor Whitlock_. I'd committed a crime, I was guilty as sin. Why they were insistent upon my release made me want to laugh at the judicial system. I stood in court, looked the judge in the eye and told him I had shot my husband. In the face. Why anyone was debating that, I had no idea. People are just stupid I guess... especially jurisdictive ones.

I'm not sure how many more times I'm going to have to rehash what happened that day before people got the idea.

_I'd woken up that morning feeling rebellious. A little more fire than usual. More pep in my step, which was so uncommon after a night like the one before. James had been particularly brutal all week and there was really no reason that I was so cheerful that morning. I'd gotten up right at five forty-five to set the timer on the coffee maker and had his breakfast ready and in the warming drawer by six thirty. Despite the bruises and the ache between my legs, the lightness I felt made moving around so much easier._

_He didn't say anything to me that morning. He said something under his breath about the coffee being too bitter, but though I expected some sort of punishment, one never came. He threw on his lab coat, wrapped his stethoscope around his neck and slouched through the door without more than a withering glance my way. The rumble of his truck as he pulled out of the driveway signified his departure and that was the last I saw or heard of him._

_It would also be the last time he left the house alive._

_I hadn't been planning to kill him. In fact, the idea didn't even pop into my head until I was dusting the house and happened to pass by his gun cabinet. He'd been cleaning a rifle the night before—my dad thought he was an avid hunter while I knew about the guns' actual purpose—and as I walked by, my eye caught on the lock. The key was still in it, just sitting there. Taunting me. Normally, when he put the guns away he would lock the cabinet and pocket the key._

_I thought back to the night before. He'd been putting the gun in the cabinet when I approached him with the phone. An Edward had been calling. Said it was urgent._

_I guess it distracted him enough that he left the key in the lock._

_I couldn't help the grin that lit up my face as I placed my fingers on the key and, though they were trembling, grasped the key and turned it to the left. I jumped as the bolt slid back with a thunk, and out of habit looked over both of my shoulders, even though I knew he was gone. As I pulled open the glass door, a rush of adrenaline and pure glee shot through my body like a hit of heroin, and I cackled like a crazy woman as it swung all the way open. I ran my fingers over the polished wood of the barrels like a lover would caress the flesh of her partner, my eyes wide and appreciative as I took in the glossy finish and immaculate cleanliness of each weapon. There were so many, ranging from the wooden, outdoorsy rifles—that he mainly used when out with my father—to the menacing, pure black snipers that he'd been trained with when he was in the military._

_I held by breath as my hand clasped around the barrel of the Remington shotgun he bought soon after we were married. Memories of being cracked across the face with the barrel, or slammed in the ribs with the butt flashed through my mind as my grip became more firm. My resolve gathering, slowly eating away my moment of delight, I lifted the gun from the rack. It was heavy in my hands, slippery as the sweat in my palm slickened the surface. My fingers trembled, quakes that reflected all the way down my body._

_But it felt right in my hands, and when I snapped back the hammer, the loud cocking sound solidified my decision._

_My whole body trembled with it._

_I laid the gun carefully on the table and went about cleaning the house. I glanced at the clock often, wanting to time it perfectly. I had to be waiting on the front porch when he pulled up. I had to have the gun ready too, because if I wasted any time before getting the barrel lined up with his forehead, he would be on the porch and have my face pushed into the deck in two seconds. And I was sure that's where I'd stay, until someone found me and he was long gone._

_At five thirty I found myself in a deck chair, my untied combat boots propped up on the wicker table. I'd pulled my jean shorts out of a box of stuff from college, which I'd found shoved in the back of the attic. They were way shorter than he allowed. I chuckled to myself at the thought. My red plaid flannel shirt hung limply around my body as I'd lost weight since we left UW but I made due by rolling up the sleeves and throwing on one of his wife-beaters—coincidence, I thought, that he owned so many of them. A cigarette hung loosely burning from my lips. A bottle of Jack sat next to the heel of my boot. Normally I wasn't allowed to go in his liquor cabinet, but since I wasn't giving a fuck, I was going to do whatever the hell I wanted. _

_I sat on the porch for a while, mysteriously numb. I wasn't shaking or trembling anymore. An eerie sense of calm had settled over me and as I trained my eyes on the mouth of the driveway, I contemplated how I wanted things to play out. If I wanted to aim the gun at him as soon as his truck pulled in, or if I wanted to wait until he got out. Both plans had complications; if I leveled it at him as he pulled in, he could reverse and pull right the fuck out. If I waited until he climbed out, I could move to slow or miss._

_And then the bastard really would kill me._

_I took a swig of Jack, wincing as it burned down my throat. Liquid courage my fucking ass. It was a distraction technique, that's all it was. I took a pull from the cigarette, blowing smoke smoothly out into the forest that surrounded our house—because of course the motherfucker would pick the most remote, isolated house in the whole motherfucking tiny town. _

_Unfortunately, it was as I was putting my cigarette back in my mouth that I heard the rumble of his truck on the gravel. As the grill of his Ford came into view, my heart kicked into overdrive. My mouth took on a cottony feel and all of a sudden it became real. I could see his face through the windshield. He'd seen me. He knew something wasn't right. He parked the truck and stared at me through the glass as the cloud of dust settled around him. A sick smirk curled over his mouth and it was that arrogance that drove a nail in his coffin._

_He opened the door and stepped down from the truck. _

"_Whatcha going to do, baby?" he asked. "You gonna shoot me?"_

_My hands curled around the gun._

"_Give it your best shot, you little bitch. I bet you couldn't hit me even with your dear old daddy standing behind you and pointing the gun."_

_I pulled the gun up, took aim, and rested my finger on the trigger. I waited. Shifted the gun over a little. Pulled._

_Missed on purpose._

_I wanted to have my fun too, which I don't think he realized. He got his kicks when he laid into me, and now I wanted to have some fun with him too. Call it retribution. Call me crazy. _

_I cared not._

_See, what he didn't realize was that he wasn't the only one my dear old daddy had taken hunting. _

_He laughed at me and started to move forward. Having not lowered the gun, I moved it over a hair. Pulled back the hammer with my thumb just as he stepped onto the stairs of the deck. Without a second thought, a blink, a breath, I pulled the trigger. I saw the spray of blood, saw half of his face disappear with the blast. Watched his brain matter shoot up into the trees. But the only thought running through my head was that if there was blood in my Jack, I'd shoot him in the face again._

"That's basically how it went," I said, staring the greasy-looking one in the face. The plaque in front of him said Aro Volturi. Even his name sounded pretentious, and I didn't even want to start on the nose that was currently pointed up in the air.

My lawyer, a state-appointed jit by the name of Riley Biers, had coached me on how this was going to go. They were going to spend a lot of time interrogating me, asking me all kinds of questions from what happened to if I felt remorse. They would interview a few other people as well, including the Warden, Doctor Whitlock, my father, the prison doctor—_Doctor Masen_—and a few guards to determine whether or not I was able to leave on parole. Not like I thought that was a possibility in hell.

I shot my fucking husband in the face. I was not leaving this place any time soon.

"Mrs. Hunter," a thinning, slightly attractive grey-haired man leaned forward in his seat. _Caius Kahn. _"Do you, or do you not, realize the ramifications of the story you are telling us today?"

I shrugged. Biers nudged me in the side and I sat up a little straighter, folding my hands in my lap. "I mean… yes sir, I do. I understood them at my trial and I don't assume that they have changed now?"

"Not quite, Mrs. Hunter," he said. "At trial, you were being sentenced to prison. This is a parole hearing… a chance for you to be released. Isn't that something you want?"

I shrugged. "I mean, who wouldn't? But… I shot my husband. I don't see why we're having this discussion in the first place."

Riley sighed and dragged a hand down his face.

"So you don't feel any remorse?"

I tossed Rose's words around in my mind, testing them out. "I mean… I feel a little sorry for his family and how it affected them, maybe. But they didn't know who he really was, not until they sat through the trial. No one did. I don't blame them, and I feel bad that they had to sit there and be subjected to all of that at once. Dealing with the fact that your husband's wife shot him in the head on top of having to hear about what an animal he was had to have been incredibly hard for them, and I'm sorry for what my actions have put them through. As far as feeling any remorse for what I did to _him_, I don't and I never will. He was… he was…"

The room was deathly silent as I tried to come up with words. The faces of the three board members were impassive and completely devoid of emotion. It was as if their faces were made of marble and they were stone gargoyles watching their prey.

I took a deep breath. "He was a monster, and if I'm being honest with you sir, I would gladly take eternity here than have to live another day with him. So if this is the price I pay to never have to be near him again, I will pay it multiple lifetimes over."

"But you had other options, if you didn't want to live with him," said a fat, bald man on the left of Mr. Volturi. Marcus Swift. "You could have gone to the police, you could have called a hotline. There is no record that you ever did either."

I shrugged. "My father _was _the police. As far as he was concerned, James was a saint and I was exceptionally clumsy. And we had no telephone."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hunter," Aro said with a bland tone. He looked up at the guard near the door, who came up by my side and touched my elbow in a gesture suggesting that I stand. I stood, nodding at the three men and was led over to a table to their left. I sat there, with my lawyer, while the next person to testify was called forward.

The Warden was called forward to speak, though I wasn't sure what they expected her to say. I had seen her maybe a handful of times over my stay, and none of those times had been any direct confrontations. She answered their questions about what I did at the prison, like my work and how I spent my free time. She was uncannily accurate and precise in her detailing of my activity, making me keenly aware of the documentation that must be going on behind closed doors. Every trip I made to the library, every book I'd checked out had been monitored. Every shift I had worked in the kitchen was recorded. Any time I went to see Doctor Whitlock, watched TV in the recreation room… any time I had left my cell, it had been charted in my file.

Seeming satisfied with what the Warden testified they called forward Dr. Whitlock.

He walked into the room collected and with an air of confidence. He looked over at me and smiled. I did not return it. He greeted the parole board members by name, a gesture which they acknowledged and returned. It seemed he was on friendly terms with them, something he said would help my case. I didn't want my case helped, so I had merely shrugged when he mentioned it. He sat the manila folder that held my session notes on the table and leaned back in his chair.

"State your name for the record," Volturi barked.

"Dr. Jasper Whitlock, prison therapist at the Washington Corrections Center for Women."

"You've provided therapy for Mrs. Hunter during her duration?"

"That's correct," he answered.

"Please describe how this therapy has progressed."

"When Mrs. Hunter—Isabella—first came to see me, I'd been only made scantily aware of her case from the brief description I was provided. I knew only that she came from an abusive relationship and had shot her husband at point blank. I wasn't made aware on any of the circumstances of her abuse, giving me a _tabula rasa_, so to speak, with which to work."

"Would you please detail some of the abuse you became aware of?"

Dr. Whitlock looked over at me, a note of sympathy and apology in his eye. I continued to stare back at him numbly. His voice carried a hint of revulsion and anger. Toward whom I wasn't sure.

"He lit a fire above her while she was submerged in a bathtub. Held her arms over a lit burner on the stove. Smothered her with a pillow and proceeded to rape her. Tied her to a chair and forced her watch him kill her dog."

I squeezed my eyes shut. _Seth._

"Those are only a few of the specific situations that she has told me about, besides the hitting, raping and verbal abuse that seemed to be commonplace for her at the time."

"And how would you say this has affected her presently?"

"She's been witnessed to having nightmares that cause her to wake up screaming in the middle of the night. Usually after such a nightmare, she grows withdrawn and detached from any and all forms of human-to-human contact, which I fear is causing her massive psychological trauma on top of what has already been caused."

"Has she been diagnosed with any disorders?"

"I've been working on a diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder. The nightmares, the detachment, the numbness she feels, the vivid flashbacks and the depression on top of her self-isolation and blatant avoidance of anything having to do with James Hunter all points toward PTSD."

"Is she being medicated?"

Dr. Whitlock shook his head. "Though she's been displaying a number of emotional symptoms indicative of PTSD, she has not caused harm to herself or to any other inmates. In fact, she makes it a point to avoid any sort of altercation, be it with an inmate or a guard. She does not show any sort of violent tendencies, making me believe that a continuation of therapy would be the best way to treat her."

Caius Kahn leaned forward. "Doctor, based on your expert opinion, do you believe Mrs. Hunter would be adequately suited to survive in an environment beyond prison?"

Dr. Whitlock seemed to ponder this for a moment. "Mrs. Hunter married soon after college. She was on her own for about four years before marrying and having her life controlled once again. She lived in total isolation from society and I wouldn't be surprised if she had no friends whatsoever." He glanced over at me. "However, I feel that with the right parole officer and continued therapy, she will learn to be able to stand on her own two feet again and pursue a life that she should have been having all along."

"Thank you Dr. Whitlock," Aro said. He glanced over at me with the same dispassionate expression he'd worn through the duration of the hearing. "We'd like to call forward Dr. Edward Masen."

This time I looked to the floor. I didn't want to watch the pompous bastard any more than I wanted to be in the same room with him. I clasped my hands in my lap and listened as he greeted the parole board members, noticeably less self-sure around them as Dr. Whitlock had been, though that didn't mean his arrogant, overly-confident air wasn't present.

Nope, that was perfectly intact.

"Please state your name for the record."

"Dr. Edward Masen, head of neuroscience at the Harborview Medical Center and visiting prison doctor."

"There's a pretty big difference between neuroscience and general medicine, doctor."

Dr. Masen nodded. "While applying for residency programs, I was fascinated by both general medicine and neuroscience. I eventually chose general medicine as a specialty, however in the third year of my residency decided to switch to neurosurgery. I've been working in the field ever since."

"You're pretty young to be the head of a neurosurgical field."

Dr. Masen shrugged. "I worked hard."

I was thrown off balance by his comment. I was expecting something haughty and arrogant about how brilliant he was, or how easy it had been for him. The fact that he wasn't flaunting his success at all made me doubt my original assessment of him.

"You examined Mrs. Hunter recently, yes?" Volturi asked.

"That's correct, sir."

"Was this the first time you had seen her?"

"Yes."

"What provoked this examination?"

"Mrs. Hunter was involved in a work-related accident in the kitchen. There was an altercation between two female inmates in which she was caught in the crosshairs. She had no connection to the dispute."

"And what did your examination yield?"

"She suffered a minor concussion, which we kept her in the observation room for overnight. She suffered an injury to her arm, which she wasn't very forthcoming about, so we put her arm in a sling and when she left the next morning she claimed to feel no pain."

_It had hurt like a motherfucker, I just didn't want his hands on me anymore._

"How thorough was your examination of Mrs. Hunter?"

Dr. Masen shifted in his seat. "The examination was limited to external injuries only. Had there been any complications throughout the night I would have mandated she be taken to a hospital for an MRI. However since there were no complications, she was not examined internally. Results showed headache, nausea, dizziness and lightheadedness. I diagnosed her with a concussion and held her for observation."

Marcus nodded his head, seeming to agree with Dr. Masen's diagnosis. "Was there anything out of the ordinary that you noticed during your examination?"

"No sir, not from a medicinal standpoint."

"What about any physical signs of injury previous to your examination?"

Dr. Masen took a deep breath. I looked up at him. His face was hard, his angular jaw locked. I knew he was thinking about the scars. I was praying he didn't say anything about them.

"I have no way of knowing whether those came before or after her sentence, sir."

I exhaled a breath. It was louder than I intended and I caught the eye of Marcus Swift.

"But there _were _signs of previous injury?"

Dr. Masen realized his slip.

"To substantiate the claim that Mrs. Hunter had been a victim of abuse?"

He nodded, and my heart plummeted. "Yes, there is visible scarring in several places on her body."

"State where." Aro glanced up at Dr. Masen. "For the record."

I watched his fists clench. "As it wasn't a part of my examination, I didn't take too detailed a note of the marks. However, there are scars from a burn across her forearms." He glanced over at me and for the first time since he'd entered the room he met my eyes. Rather than seeing the cold, condescending stare that I was expecting, I got something kinder… more compassionate.

"Thick scars, no more than two inches long, maybe ten of them , in a cluster…" he gestured to the expanse of skin between his shoulder and elbow, "…here. Possibly…probably… stab wounds."

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Did you see anything in her medical records that would indicate abuse?"

Masen nodded. "I became aware of a number of trips to the hospital for major injuries, but they were fewer than you would expect from an abuse victim."

"Because?"

Dr. Masen shifted. "Well, you'd have to confirm with Dr. Whitlock, but it _is _common for abusers to prevent victims from seeking proper medical care in order to prevent any unnecessary attention that would cause investigation."

"Dr. Masen, do you believe Mrs. Hunter is fit for release?"

He glanced over at me and I stared back at him intently.

_Say it, _I goaded him, _say it. Say I'm fit for release when you know damn good and well that I'm not._

"I think that with proper therapy, she should be fine. She didn't demonstrate any behavior I would deem… unsuitable for a normal life beyond prison. She _did _demonstrate an element of hostility during the examination, but I'd like to blame that on my impeccable bedside manner." He flashed a grin at the board members, indicating his sarcasm, and I felt sick when they chuckled in response. Here this man was telling them I was hostile and they were laughing as if it was no major issue.

It didn't help that his smile was… well, it was beautiful.

It made my fists clench.

"Thank you Dr. Masen, you've been very helpful."

I could tell that his cocky attitude was returning. He stood from the chair and adjusted his navy blazer, a stupid smug grin plastered all over his fake face. Walking forward he shook the hands of each of the men at the table before turning on his heel. He glanced over at me once more and I met his eyes with as much anger and _hostility _as I could.

The anger and hostility did not leave my face for the duration of the hearing. Next they called my father, and no amount of coaching from Riley could keep the disdain and hatred from my mind, let alone my features. My father entered the room in his uniform, hat tucked under one arm. He didn't look over at me but instead sat down in the chair and nodded gruffly to Aro.

"Please state your name."

"Charles Swan, chief of the Forks Police Department, Forks, Washington."

"Please state the nature of your relationship to Mrs. Hunter."

"I am her father."

"Please describe when you became aware of Mr. Hunter's presence in her life."

A man of few words and emotions, my father did his best to answer their question. "She met James in college. Brought him home a few times and he seemed like a good guy. She seemed to like him enough. Seemed happy."

"And there were no signs of abuse that you became aware of?"

"No."

"What about after they were married?"

"I never saw anything."

"And how many times did you see your daughter?"

Charlie paused for a moment. "Few times."

"How many times did you see Mr. Hunter?"

"Probably once a week."

Marcus nodded, jotting something down.

"Describe your activities."

"Hunting, fishing, outdoors stuff. Stuff Bell—Mrs. Hunter never seemed to take an interest in."

I wanted to choke. I'd been hunting with him so many times…

"Are you aware of the general psychology of an abuser, Mr. Swan?"

"Can't say I am."

Marcus sat forward. "Victimizers often forge strong relationships with persons close to the victim in order to further isolate those being abused as well as to create trust between those they are seeking a relationship with. To make it more difficult for the victim to make any allegations against them. And when they _do _come forward, to make those allegations less believable."

"Makes sense."

"Are you aware that you saw Mr. Hunter more than you saw your own daughter?"

"She was busy working."

Marcus continued. "She worked at a _diner_, Mr. Swan. Mr. Hunter worked as a surgeon at a major _hospital. _You tell me which one was logically busier."

My father chose not to answer.

"I just want to make one more thing clear, before we ask you one final question. You stated you were chief of police, correct?"

"That's correct."

"Meaning you had authority over the whole department."

"Yes."

Marcus' voice was lethal, so contrary to his calm demeanor when questioning Dr. Whitlock and Dr. Masen. "Do you not see why Mr. Hunter chose to grow close to you?"

Again, my father did not answer.

Aro finally asked the most important question. "Do you think Mrs. Hunter should be released?"

"No, I don't," he answered. "As an officer of the law I believe that any individual convicted of a crime should serve the full, maximum penalty for it. Mrs. Hunter shot her husband in the face. In my opinion, she should be locked up for life."

My heart hammered in my chest. It was the answer I wanted, and it was an opinion he had made very clear in his testimony at my trial. Despite the fact that I had tried to numb myself over the past years, it still hurt to hear the words coming from my father's lips. I tried—God, I tried—not to care, not to let his betrayal affect me. But it cut me deeply, even to this day and I fought hard to keep my emotion at bay.

It didn't matter that I'd shot James that day.

He was still living through my father.

-X-X-X-X-X-

I'd avoided Rose for the remainder of the day—which isn't easy when you share a cell. I hadn't gone out of my way to stay away from her, but I knew she wanted to ask questions about the hearing and I wasn't ready to answer them yet. I was still shaken up over seeing my father for the first time in four years and I didn't want to talk about anything with anyone other than Dr. Whitlock, who was unavailable for sessions this late at night.

He didn't have to live here too.

I'd sat with her for dinner but tactfully avoided her questions and dodged any topic that was in any way related to James, my father or what had happened in that room. When we went back to our cells, I told her I was exhausted from the day and pretended to fall asleep so I wouldn't have to talk to her.

Eventually, she got the hint and stopped asking.

Over the next several days, I went back to the life I knew in prison while I awaited my fate. The parole board was currently reviewing all of the testimony brought forth at the hearing and deciding whether I could stay or if I should go. It wasn't an easy task, working in the kitchen, jogging in the courtyard or reading in my cell just to pass the time, but I made it work somehow. I got back into the swing of my everyday schedule and soon it became easy to pretend that I didn't have to go anywhere. Eventually, I forgot about the whole ordeal.

Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months without any word from the parole board. I continued to see Dr. Whitlock twice a week and he thankfully avoided talking about anything having to do with the hearing. My father was off the table, so he continued with things we'd been talking about all along. If I was having nightmares, what was I reading, if I was experiencing any trouble with my emotions.

It was quickly approaching December. The cheap paper Christmas decorations had been strung up in the recreation room and throughout a few of the hallways. A small Christmas tree was set up in the mess hall with enough lights to not make it look bare. Snow was softly falling outside on a regular basis. I was at dinner with Rose, pushing around a grey piece of meat that was supposed to be pot roast when an officer approached our table with a handful of mail.

"Merry Christmas, Hunter," she said, handing me an envelope.

I rarely got mail. My mother was dead, I had no friends and my father was taking my dead ex-husband's side.

My mouth ran dry when I noticed the return address at the top of the envelope.

It was from the parole board.

Rose looked up at me. "Bella? What is it?"

"It's from the parole board," I murmured.

She perked up. "Open it," she hissed.

I shook my head. "I can't. I need to wait for my lawyer. I should go call him."

"Bella I'm sure he's gotten a copy as well. Open it!"

Several eyes were on us at this point, so to avoid any further attention, I slid my finger under the flap and pulled the envelope open. I skimmed through the letter, and as the contents began to sink into my brain, tears welled up in my eyes.

"What is it?" Rose asked.

"I've been… they accepted my plea. I'm being granted release on parole."

Rose's face lit up with a smile, but it was misguided. She thought my tears were tears of happiness.

They were the exact opposite.

**Next update should be in about a week, as long as nothing comes up. Leave a review!**

**Two things: one, I'm thinking about renaming this story so let me know if you have any ideas and two, if anyone wants to come up with a book cover thing, please do so. I'm crap at that stuff and it'd be cool to have one.**

**See you in a week!**


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